The Domesday Books
by ThePet
Summary: Sebastian Domesday, defective detective, lives at 227d Baker Street with his small friend Arthur Mulberry and his basset-hound Moriarty...some cheeky humour, nothing gross. An affectionate parody.


Prologue  
  
Twenty years ago to this day, the nation was rocked to its foundations by the final destruction of England's most evil criminal mastermind, Major Meritricious Maximus Mingeford, known only to the fearful public as the notorious 'Mad Minge'. At the time, the press was full of questions as to how the crime kingpin met his death, with everyone from Scotland Yard to Mrs. E. Miggins, a cleaning lady from Clemthorpe, claiming responsibility for the removal of a much-hated public enemy. It is only now, two decades later, that I can offer the true story in all its terrible detail, and expose the part that my friend, Mr. Sebastian Domesday, late of Baker Street, London, played in the Mad Minge's downfall.   
I have abstained from doing so prior to this time for the sake of Domesday himself, who partly from a sense of modesty but mostly because the case contained several episodes which he deemed damaging to his reputation, insisted in no uncertain terms that a true account of the events of 1895 should never appear. Now, however, with my friend safely in permanent retirement, shooting squirrels on the South Downs in Sussex, I feel at liberty to bring the facts of this most extraordinary case to light, partly because my friend deserves recognition for his remarkable efforts, and mostly because I am hoping to pay off several insistent bookies with the royalties from the story.  
Thus is laid before you, dear reader, a true account of the deeds and (literal) downfall of the most evil man in England, alongside the deeds and digressions of the second (or possibly third) greatest detective Baker Street has ever known.  
  
  
  
Being a reprint from the memoirs of Arthur H. Mulberry, late of Madame DuBois' Pleasure Palace, Hunniford  
  
In the year 1881, I arrived in London, friendless, jobless, penniless and homeless, having been invalided out of Her Majesty's army after accidentally stabbing myself with a corkscrew while trying to open a bottle of Chablis in the mess. I had no trade, having been most unfairly thrown out of medical school on the grounds that I had once mistaken my professor's wife for a subject in the dissecting room, and thus spent several weeks trying to make a living through various careers - I was variously a tailor, shopkeeper, fisherman and rent boy. Eventually by a great stroke of luck I met an old friend of mine from the war, Stamford, who claimed that he knew a man looking for someone to share rooms with. The situation seemed ideal until I found out that the chap was a weirdo who had many strange habits, smoked excessively, was addicted to cocaine and incessantly wore an offensive hat; upon discovering this I demurred, and decided instead to take rooms a few doors down with a slightly less intimidating fellow named Sebastian Domesday.  
Sebastian and I got along together very well from the first; he was a lazy sod and so was I. He was a man of quiet habits; often I would not even see him for days, and his only vices included his owning a smelly dog and a tendency not to pay the rent. Eventually, however, our domestic bliss was shattered when our motherly and sympathetic landlady sold the building in which we lived in order to become the Madame of a brothel in Chiswick; her replacement was a six foot five rugby player from Llanelli with a sour disposition and a habit of shooting at tenants he disliked. Given that my friend and I had consistently failed to pay any rent for the past three months, we were immediately threatened with eviction, prosecution, and the insertion of a walking-stick in undesirable places. It was with this grim news that I entered our sitting room on the morning of 6th May, 1895, to find Sebastian sprawled in his armchair beside the fire, his smelly dog fast asleep on his lap.  
"Sebastian!" I cried, and when this failed to rouse him, I gave him a prod with the poker. Immediately he leapt to his feet, and Moriarty, his basset-hound, was thrown to the floor with an indignant yelp.  
"We have a problem." I continued, ignoring my friend's look of startled protest. "Mr. Swthllwyn is demanding his rent."  
"So tell him to go to the devil." I sighed; Sebastian could be dreadfully obtuse at times.  
"He's a six-foot-five rugby player from Llanelli. I am a five-foot-six budding writer with a war wound. How on earth I am supposed to fend off a man like Swthllwyn?" Sebastian gave an indifferent shrug, and began playing with his dog. Following his gaze, I remarked,  
"You know, if we don't bring in some money soon, we may have to sell Moriarty." This provoked the desired reaction; Domesday began to pay attention to me for the first time.  
"Sell him!" He cried, in horror. "But he's been with me for four years! How can you suggest such a thing, Mulberry?"  
"All right, old chap." I soothed. "We don't have to sell him. We could...pawn him."  
"Pawn him! Are you mad?"  
"All right then, find another way of paying the rent!"  
"What about your war pension?"  
"You know perfectly well that I spend half of that on the racetrack, and the other half on Madame Cecily DuBois of Hunniford." Sebastian frowned.  
"Well then, you suggest something." I threw myself into a chair.  
"Very well. Have you considered taking a case?" At this point I should explain that my friend Sebastian Domesday did, in fact, have a profession, of sorts. He was a private detective, having based his career on the exploits of a certain very famous neighbour of ours whose name I am not at liberty to disclose, as chronicled by his live-in 'friend' whose name I will also refrain from mentioning; I will simply refer to them here as Mr. H. and Dr. W., or, as Sebastian prefers, Mr. 'I'm the best because I have a stupid hat H. and Dr. Thicky W.' From these remarks one might gather that Sebastian's admiration for the distinguished gentleman who remains anonymous had faded considerably, and one would be quite correct. In 1895 in particular Domesday was especially bitter, continually cursing Mr. H. for having the discourtesy to come back to life and return to London after being apparently dead for the last three years. During that period, my friend had been able to advertise his services as 'The best detective in Baker Street' by virtue of his being the only detective in Baker Street; with Mr. H.'s return, he was reduced once more to the less effective slogan 'not the worst detective in England'. This title he retained until being arrested and charged with false advertising shortly after the retirement of Mr. Lestrade of Scotland Yard.   
It seemed reasonable to me, therefore, that our financial problems should be solved by Sebastian's taking on a case, something he had refused to do for the past few months. On the return of the aforementioned Mr. H., by friend had fallen into dark melancholy, dividing his time between the sofa and his bedroom. I would like to make it clear here and now that whatever public opinion might say, he never once stepped foot in my bedroom nor I in his, except for one occasion after a rather drunken party in which I slipped a dead pigeon between his sheets for a joke. But I digress. I was about to remark that during this period of depression, Sebastian's sole joy was to sit beside the window, watching anxiously for signs of Mr. H. and Dr. W. taking a morning stroll together. As soon as he perceived them coming up the street, Sebastian would immediately begin to tap cigar ash out of the open window, at the same time readying his catapult. When Mr. H. bent over to identify the brand of cigar ash, Sebastian would gleefully attack the presented posterior with several rounds of pebbles. Nothing delighted him more than to hear the resultant startled yelp from below, and he would retreat into the room, chuckling evilly, as the word 'bastards!' drifted furiously up from the street.  
With this in mind, I wondered whether it would be hopeless to attempt to persuade Sebastian to take his first case for a long time; besides which, no cases had been offered us ("it's that bloody devil H. and his 'friend' poaching all my clients" Sebastian complained). It was with some trepidation that I broached the subject of his returning to work.  
"Come on, Mulberry!" He retorted. "You know I have to rest between cases. You don't want me collapsing from overwork, now do you?"  
"Five cases in six years hardly constitutes overwork, Sebastian - although for you I suppose it's a record." He scowled at me.   
"Well, they were especially difficult and sensitive investigations."  
"Four of them involved finding lost pets, and you spent the fifth in the red-light district."  
"A haven for prostitutes, the most likely place for the Ripper to strike!"  
"The Phantom Panty-Ripper of Old London Town is hardly a case of national importance, Sebastian." I replied severely. Then the futility of the situation struck me, and I sank wearily back in my chair.  
"It's useless." I sighed. "We don't even have any clients." Domesday smirked.  
"That's where you're wrong, my dear Mulberry. We do have a client, and an illustrious one at that!" This was truly unexpected, and most welcome news!  
"Who is it?" I demanded eagerly. "What sort of case?"  
"The client is a Mrs. Tunhenry of Bond Street." I had heard the name. Mrs. Tunhenry was a mildly senile old lady who also happened to be stinking rich! We were saved!  
"What does she want us to do?" Sebastian cleared his throat importantly.  
"Mrs. Tunhenry has requested my expertise in locating her missing Fluffy." This was curious. I did not understand it.  
"Her what?"  
"Her pussy, which is fluffy."  
"I've never heard of one called that before."  
"It's a funny name, I must admit. But she is elderly."  
"Do they get fluffy when they become elderly?"  
"Apparently so."  
"I wonder why?"  
"Loneliness, I expect."   
"I see." I did not see at all. "And it's gone missing, you say? How on earth did that come about?"  
"Mrs. Tunhenry thinks it may have been frightened by a dog, and run away." This was a little too peculiar! All at once, the realisation hit me.  
"Fluffy is a cat!"  
"Yes, of course, Mulberry." My friend replied with some irritation. "What did you expect?" I merely shook my head, embarrassed at the misunderstanding.  
"How much is she offering for Fluffy's return?"  
"Fifty guineas."  
"Bless me! We'll be in clover!" I exclaimed.  
"But first," replied my friend, dramatically, "we must locate Fluffy." With this, he disappeared into his bedroom, re-appearing a few minutes later in complete disguise.  
"Well? What do you think?" He demanded.  
"Why on earth are you wearing a dress?" I replied, puzzled. Sebastian gave an exasperated sigh.  
"Cats, my dear Mulberry, are well known to respond far better to women that to men. Furthermore, the Fluffy in question has lived with women all his adult life. Hence, the dress. Now," he asked again, impatiently, "how do I look?"  
"Fine. It's an excellent disguise." He looked exasperated.  
"That's all very well, old fellow, but does my bum look big?"  
  
And that is why, if you had cared to walk through Hyde Park on that blustery spring afternoon, you would have seen the somewhat ridiculous sight of two youngish gentlemen, one of which was wearing women's clothing, running up and down, chasing a straggly and rather mangy looking basset hound, which in its turn chased a large tom cat.   
"We'll have no trouble finding Fluffy." Sebastian had confidently assured me. "Moriarty is a first rate tracker. He has a remarkable sense of smell."  
"Yes, I know. You should bathe him more often."  
"I said sense of smell, Mulberry. I believe he has the scent already! I'll take off his lead." That was my friend's mistake. Mine was continuing to watch while Moriarty plunged into a small grove of bushes in pursuit of the cat, his master shouting encouragement.  
"That's it, boy! Get him! Good dog, Moriarty, clever dog! Now, bring him back here, boy! Bring him back...no....let go of his throat! Drop him! No, don't shake him! Bad dog! Put him down this instant! Bad Moriarty...oh dear. Oh dear me!"  
"What's happening?" I demanded, peering over my friend's shoulder.  
"We have a slight problem developing. Mulberry, do you happen to have such a thing as a paper bag?"  
Two hours later, we were back in our dingy sitting room at 127d Baker Street, carrying with us a soggy and unpleasant paper bag, and a much chastened Moriarty. Sebastian immediately collapsed into his chair beside the window; I dumped the bag upon the table before thudding down opposite him. My friend rested his head miserably upon his crossed arms.  
"Mulberry, I am undone."  
"There there, old chap."   
"I've spent the afternoon making an arse of myself in front of the general public, wearing ladies' underclothing, and what have I to show for it? A bag of cat remains and a case of housemaid's knee." With a sigh of frustration, he picked up the bag containing poor Fluffy and threw it out of the open window. I heard a muffled cry of surprise from below, and then a familiar sonorous voice crying,  
"Bastards!"   
Echoing my friend's sigh, I sank down deeper into my chair. "What are we going to do now? Mrs. Tunhenry will not give us the money, that's for sure."  
"We're damned, Mulberry! We've had it, old friend."   
"Now, now! You mustn't think like that, Sebastian."  
"I shall kill myself."  
"Over a cat? That would be too silly."   
"It isn't just the cat. My whole life has been a tragic tale of uselessness. The world is better off without Sebastian Domesday." He rose. "I'm going into my bedroom, Mulberry. I may be some time."  
He had barely left the room, however, when the doorbell rang, and he shot in again.  
"Who is it?"  
"I have no idea."  
"Perhaps it's my friends, come to beg me not to kill myself."  
"You don't have any friends, Sebastian. You loathe society."  
"Actually, that's just an advertising gimmick. In reality society loathes me." He glanced uncomfortably towards the door. "You don't think it might be...Mr. Swthllwyn?"  
"If it is, I'm not answering it."  
"Well, neither am I."  
"Let's just hide behind the sofa and shout 'come in'."   
"All right." A moment later, in response to our timid invitation, the door swung open. It was not Mr. Swthllwyn. The woman who stepped into our humble sitting room was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen in my life; tall, willowy, with the most magnificent figure. Her auburn hair fell dramatically to her waist in a long plait; her flashing blue eyes regarded us with calm, but there was a tremulousness about the mouth that spoke to my heart. She offered a slim, gloved hand to me.  
"Mr. Sebastian Domesday?"  
"Uh..." For a moment I was robbed of speech. My friend, who apparently had entirely failed to notice our guest's incredible beauty, stepped forward and said blithely,  
"I'm Domesday. This is my associate, Mr. Mulberry. And you are?" She raised her wonderful eyes and replied in a delightfully musical voice,  
"My name is Miss Mary Mina Minor, and I have lost my father."  
"Dear me, that was very careless." Domesday muttered. I frowned at him and waved our lovely client to a chair.  
"What exactly happened, Miss Minor?" She bowed her auburn head.  
"He disappeared two nights ago, after an evening of bridge at our home. He said he was going for a walk; he never returned! He is all I have in the world, and I'm so worried." To my sorrow she began to cry softly. I patted her hand, ignoring Sebastian's eye-rolling and glaring.  
"Now, then, Miss Minor, you mustn't be upset. We shall do all we can to help - shan't we, Sebastian?"  
"Um." He replied non-committally  
"Why don't you tell us," I went on, frowning at him, "what your father looks like?"  
"Well, he's five feet and seven inches tall, he has grey hair, white at the temples, and blue eyes. He is of medium build, has a full beard, and was wearing a long blue coat last time I saw him." I nodded, swiftly making a note on a bit of paper.   
"Thank you, Miss Minor. We'll look into the case. And in the meantime, please try not to worry."  
When our lovely guest had gone, I cornered Sebastian.   
"You could have been more encouraging! The poor girl was distraught."  
"Not so upset that she couldn't bring herself to make eyes at you, I notice!" He retorted. "Anyway, I said I'd look into it. It's obvious already what the result will be."  
"Well?" I demanded, somewhat sceptical.  
"He's dead."  
"How on earth can you know?" I cried, in horror.  
"Elementary, dear fellow. It's the easiest answer and involves doing the least work. We don't have to actually present the chap, just tell he's popped his clogs and Bob's your uncle. She looked like she's got a few quid." I was appalled and disgusted.  
"I'm appalled and disgusted, Sebastian." I told him. "And if you won't make an effort to help poor Miss Minor, I will!" With that, I stormed out of the room, not certain as to where I was going, knowing only that I wanted to be alone.  
Sebastian was really starting to tick me off.  
  
For a few days we barely spoke to one another. I began an investigation into Mr. Minor's disappearance, and as such - naturally - saw a great deal of Mary. Sebastian did nothing but complain, especially when I mentioned her name. He would curl his lip and scowl in the most dreadful fashion. Finally, one week after Mary first came to us with her case - at a point when I was ready to admit defeat in terms of finding her father - she sent me a joyful telegram to say that the old man had turned up. All that had happened, she laughingly told me when I went to her house for an explanation, was that Mr. Minor had gone for his walk, stumbled while strolling beside the Thames, fallen in, been washed shore some miles away with amnesia and been forced to walk back home, after spending several days figuring out where home was.  
"It has been a worry of course." My beautiful Mary sighed, "but we can laugh about it now." She had a wonderful laugh. There and then I asked her to go dancing with me; to my astonishment and delight she agreed to call upon me at my rooms.  
Sebastian did not react well to the news. His face crumpled and he hid himself behind a newspaper; I distinctly heard him mutter darkly,  
"He never takes me dancing!" I was about to respond to this peculiar remark when the doorbell rang, and in came Mary, looking more devastatingly lovely than ever in the most opulent ballgown through which the line of her tits was clearly visible, although social convention prevented her from showing either leg or cleavage.   
"Good evening, Mr. Domesday." She said politely to my friend. He glanced up coldly from his newspaper.  
"Miss Minor." He replied grimly. I flicked him a sharp glance before turning my full attention to Mary and her talents.  
"We had better go, my dear, or we shall be late."  
"Certainly, Arthur. Goodbye, Mr. Domesday."  
"Goodbye. I hope you die horribly."  
"I...beg your pardon?" My beloved said in some consternation.  
"Did I say die horribly?" Sebastian asked. "I meant, have a lovely evening."  
"Oh, thank you!" My future wife cried in relief, and we went off together for an evening of sweaty and vigorous entertainment, at the culmination of which I asked her to marry me. It took two more culminations and a glass of water before she agreed; but before the morning, I had gained a fiancee.  
  
What with the planning and setting up of a household, and the large amount of culminating that comes immediately after a wedding, I did not see my friend for some months. He had reacted oddly to the news, saying that he simply could not congratulate me.  
"Is it because marriage is an emotional thing, and as such biases the judgement and devastates the logical faculty?" I asked.  
"Yes." He replied in a wobbly voice, then ran off and locked himself in his bedroom for sixteen hours. When he emerged, looking very pale and with red-rimmed eyes, I presented him with a cup of tea, at which point he mumbled tremulously,  
"This may be the last cup of tea you ever make me."  
"It's the first cup of tea I've ever made you."  
"I shall miss this." He said with a sniff.  
"Miss what?" To my distress he began to sob into his teacup.  
"My dear chap," I cried, "what on earth is the matter?"  
"After all these years," he whimpered, "you desert me for - a woman!"  
"Oh, come now!"  
"I shall be all alone!"  
"You've got Moriarty."  
"He can't speak."  
"Well, go and call on the neighbours." This was not the right thing to say. Sebastian glared at me.  
"Those two are a pair of weirdoes. There's something strange about a man whose wife allows him to go gallivanting around the country with a cocaine fiend in a stupid hat; and something even funnier about the fact that as soon as the poor old girl kicked it, Thicky W. moved straight back in to 221B. I tell you they're strange, Mulberry! I think Thicky killed her for her money."  
"I didn't think she had any money."  
"Ah, that's what he said! Anyway, I'm certainly not going to be calling on them. I would rather die."  
Sebastian had reckoned, however, without Mr. Swythllwyn, and he was often forced out of the apartments in order to avoid being knee-capped by the Rugby forward and his psychopathic friends. I was therefore not entirely surprised when he turned up on my doorstep, some five months after my marriage, with a woeful tale. My wife, fortunately, was out, and I invited Sebastian in for a cup of tea, not failing to notice the fact that he had a considerable amount of bags and boxes with him.  
"Mulberry," he said when the usual pleasantries had been completed, and tea consumed, "might I stay with you this evening, in your bachelor quarters for one?"  
"Certainly, dear chap." I replied, deeply touched that he missed me to such a degree that he wanted to spend the night at my house.  
"Oh, good." Sebastian went on, "because I've been evicted."   
"Oh! Well, it was only a matter of time I suppose. When did this happen?"  
"About two weeks ago."  
"And where have you been staying until then?" Sebastian shuddered.   
"It is a tale of woeful tragic and deep desperation. I've been sleeping on the sofa at our illustrious neighbours' house."  
"My God! Not with..."  
"Yes, Mulberry, I have spent almost a fortnight within the bullet-marked walls of 221b Baker Street, in the company of the Mad Hatter and Thicky. And let me tell you it was appalling." Warming to his tale, he leaned forward conspiratorially. "I said they were weird, remember? Well I've got proof. They eat curry for breakfast!" He sat back with a smirk upon his face. "How about that?"  
"Very odd." I agreed, rather nonplussed.  
"There's more. H. occasionally wears women's clothing."  
"So do you."  
"That's by-the-by. And that Thicky is a proper pervert. He's had women over three continents!"  
"Three continents!"  
"Yes. And you know where H. spent some of his three year sabbatical?"  
"Where?"  
"In the presence of a llama!"  
"A llama?" I cried, mystified. What had Mr. H. been doing with a species of camel?  
"That's what I'd like to know." Sebastian replied, when I voiced my question. "Something twisted and perverse, no doubt. H. is even weirder than Thicky. He's got the letters 'V.R.' on his wall in bullet holes, I can only assume he put them there while under the influence of something undesirable. He plays that bloody violin morning noon and night, and I'm sure their landlady is a transvestite."  
"Really, Sebastian!"  
"But anyway, it was worth it..." my friend gave a self-satisfied grin, "because I got a case out of it." I was astounded.  
"A case!"  
"My biggest yet. An illustrious client."  
"Who?" I cried.  
"No less than the premier himself."  
"Good Lord!" I pause to take this in, realising in the process that it was bloody unlikely.  
"Sebastian," I said after a moment's reflection, "are you sure it was the premier?"  
"Absolutely."  
"And - he was coming to see you?"  
"Well..." my friend paused, and a flicker of embarrassment passed over his lean features.  
"What have you done, Sebastian?" I demanded, anxiously. He smiled awkwardly and shrugged.  
"Well, what was I supposed to do? The Mad Hatter and Thicky had gone out somewhere together, probably to one of those funny public houses where everyone is male and wears leather, and this distinguished looking gentleman turned up in disguise and asked whether I was H. So I said, 'Yes, I am H., my silly hat is at the cleaners."  
"What did he say?"  
"He looked a bit confused, but seemed to pass it off as quite expected. I told you H. was barmy. Anyway, he seemed to have a tale to tell, so I sat in H.'s chair and pinched his pipe, and when I'd finished coughing I invited the P.M. to tell me his problem. I knew he was the P.M., you see because he introduced himself as such."  
"Indeed. And what was the tale?"  
"One of great drama. It appears that the whole of London is held in the thrall of an evil criminal mastermind, which is a secret best kept from the public."  
"Yes, his name was Professor Moriarty and Mr. H. threw him off a cliff some time ago. You should know that, Sebastian, you named your dog after him."  
"Not Moriarty, Mulberry! I told you H. was obsessing about that poor old Professor. Probably the drugs have affected his brain. Anyway, the real criminal mastermind is a chap named Major Mingeford."  
"The Mad Minge! Yes, I read about that in the newspapers. Don't tell me you've been engaged to catch him!" Sebastian puffed himself up, and beamed.  
"I have, indeed. In the absence of H., anyway. Appointed by the premier himself! This is my big chance, Mulberry." He gazed at me in an appealing manner. "You will help me, won't you, old friend? I can't do it by myself." I was very touched.  
"Of course, old chap, of course. Wouldn't miss it for the world."  
"And what about the old bi...er, your lady wife?"  
"I'm sure she won't mind. But what about Moriarty?"  
"He's dead. The Mad Hatter threw him off a cliff."  
"No, no. I mean your dog."  
"Oh." Sebastian's face darkened. "That's the second problem. I'm afraid he's been impounded."  
"Oh, dear!"  
"I was deeply upset."  
"Of course."  
"I was very attached to him. That's yet another reason why I can't abide Mr. H. and his dim 'friend'. They kicked at my dog and called him 'sod off' when his name is Moriarty." Sebastian sighed, then perked up as he remembered something.  
"By the way, Mulberry, I'm expecting a visitor."  
"Well, hadn't you better go home then?"  
"I am home." He looked puzzled. I winced. What was my lady wife going to say when I informed her that a crap detective with a venomous streak where she was concerned was living in our house? But it was very hard to refuse my friend anything, largely because I owed him five quid.  
"So who is your visitor?" He beamed.  
"My very own thick policeman!"  
"Really!" I exclaimed, in admiration. Getting a thick policeman to impress represented the pinnacle in a detective's career in the late nineteenth century. "That's marvellous, Sebastian - I fancy that's his ring."  
"Where?"  
"On the doorbell."  
"Oh!" My friend leapt to his feet. "I'll get it." I followed him to the door, and, sure enough, there was a thick policeman in plain clothes, staring at us.  
"Mr. Sebastian Domesday, boy?" He asked, in a profoundly Welsh accent. Domesday blinked, then stared hard at him.  
"You are not a cockney!"  
"Not at all, I am from the valleys of Wales, boyo. How green is my valley? Well, I will tell you..."  
"No, thank you. Well, this is truly appalling! You have no business being a Welshman. Fetch me a cockney at once!"  
"Right you are, boy." He left us, to be replaced a few minutes later by a tall and scruffy chap with a chewed moustache and a face like a ferret.  
"Mr. Sebastian Domesday, apples and pears, pen and ink, 'ow's yer father?"  
"Yes, I am he. Welcome, thick policeman. Do come in."   
"Thank you, Brahms and Lizt, dirty weekend, all gone pear-shaped." And he did - come in, that is. Having provided him with tea, a cigar and a polite request to cease the rhyming slang and general Cockneyisms, Sebastian proceeded to fill our thick policeman in on the details of the case thus far.  
"We've got the catch the Mad Minge."  
"I don't want none of that, Mr. Domesday, 'ow's yer father..." he paused as Sebastian glared at him. "Sorry...no, no, we don't go in for sexual diseases at the Yard."  
"You'll find nothing like that in my back yard!" I ejaculated, incensed.  
"I mean Scotland Yard, sir." Sebastian was confused.  
"Eh? I thought you were a cockney. Now here you are saying you're from Scotland!"  
"Scotland Yard is in London, sir, not many people know that. So what are the rest of the case details, Mr. Domesday?"  
"Er...well that's it really."  
"Oh." For a moment we all stared at each other, nonplussed.   
"Shall we get started then?" Our policeman asked impatiently. "My wife's expecting me."  
"Sounds very Freudian." My friend remarked. The Inspector contrived to look intelligent but failed.  
"Sorry, I don't understand that."  
"You're not meant to, you are the prerequisite thick policeman. In fact, as soon as I have bewildered you with the strangeness of my methods, you can go away and not come back until the resolution of the case where I can impress you. But you have to ridicule my methods first."  
"That shouldn't be a problem." Said Cockney. "You're a prat."  
"Ah, I said my methods, not my personality."  
"You're a stupid prat?"  
"Try harder."  
"A stupid prat...who doesn't know how to do detective work!" The police inspector finished triumphantly. Sebastian nodded.   
"I suppose that will do. Away with you, thick policeman, to pursue your own leads in the case from the wrong end of the stick while I do something clever."  
  
After he had gone, I sat and waited patiently for Sebastian to do something clever. He didn't. He drank tea, then fell asleep for a while on my sofa. I continued to watch him, but apart from muttering strange things in his sleep (I recall some comment that implied the insertion of stupid hats into unsavoury places, and a rather worrying mention of my own name, but apart from that Sebastian's unconscious monologues consisted largely of odd remarks about squirrels) he really did very little at all. Eventually I got bored and wandered into the garden, thinking about what my wife might be doing, and rather bitterly about what she wasn't doing at the current moment. I also wondered whether the horse I'd backed was going to come in this time. I'd put money on Scarlet Street to win, but alarming rumours were abounding about a creature named Silver Blaze.  
By the time my thoughts had come a full circle and I was confusedly ruminating on whether my wife was going to come first, Sebastian had roused himself and emerged onto my grass.  
"Mulberry, we're off!" He exclaimed.  
"Where, old chap?" I enquired patiently.  
"Hyde Park. There is something I must do."  
Obediently I followed him to Hyde Park. We walked. I wanted to take a hansom but Sebastian insisted coldly that this was the sort of wimpy-girly-wet thing H. and W. would do, so we walked in the piddling rain for nearly an hour, got soaking wet and arrived, dripping, at the Park at about 6pm on a cold and dark night.  
"I don't see the point," I said after some hours had passed, which Sebastian had spent running around, lying on the grass, climbing trees and standing on his head, "I'm going to get a drink." When I returned half an hour later, feeling a trifle guilty at having abandoned my friend after promising to help him, I found Sebastian rooting in the underbrush, seemingly in pursuit of a small grey squirrel.   
"What are you doing, Sebastian?" I asked.  
"You know my methods. Apply them!" He retorted.  
"Well, you seem to be lurking about in Hyde Park chasing small animals. Is the squirrel a witness?" I added, with acidly dripping sarcasm.  
"No." My friend replied calmly. "It is a suspect."  
"A suspect."  
"Indeed, my dear Mulberry."  
"The squirrel...is a suspect."  
"Yes."  
"And what is it suspected of? Eating nuts? Climbing trees? Going 'eep'?"  
"I don't believe squirrels usually go 'eep'. You're thinking of gerbils, they do. They also bob their heads up and down like this." He proceeded to bob his head up and down in imitation of a gerbil. I began to be concerned.  
"Perhaps you should tell me why exactly the squirrel is suspected." His face became hunted.  
"Ha! Need you ask? Those vile vermin, those rabid rodents? Creatures of the night! Disciples of Satan! I hate them! I hate them!" He stared around him wildly. "There's another one of the bastards!" I patted him on the arm.  
"Steady on, old chap. I think this case is a bit much for you." But he wasn't listening.  
"I know they're after me. They listen, you know. I see them on my window sill, watching, waiting, hoping I'll make a slip and they can destroy me."   
"Squirrels?" I turned my attention to the little grey chap who was sitting up on his back legs, rather sweetly, watching us with interest. "I think they're quite cute." I remarked. Sebastian looked pained.  
"They've gotten to you already, Mulberry? Damn them." He sounded very tired. "Come on. Let's go home."   
  
  
  
By 'home' of course Sebastian meant my home, which he appeared to have adopted. I dreaded telling my wife. The odd thing was that she'd never returned from that visit to an elderly relative I mentioned earlier; when we arrived at my little place in the French sector, called La Rue Queen Danny, she was nowhere to be found, which revived my friend's spirits somewhat.  
"Maybe she's run off with that policeman." He suggested. "Or perhaps even Thicky. He's a notorious womaniser. Don't worry, Mulberry. I'll comfort you."  
"I'd rather you didn't." I told him firmly. "And I'm sure she's just popped out again to visit yet another ailing maiden aunt."  
"She's left you a note." Sebastian remarked, picking up something from behind the fruit bowl. I was seized with a sense of great foreboding.  
"I am seized with a sense of great foreboding." I said. "Is it a Dear John note?"  
"No, it's a Dear Arthur."  
"Well, what does it say, for goodness sake?" Sebastian cleared his throat and, in an appalling imitation of my wife's voice, began to speak:  
"'Dear Arthur...' Does she always call you Arthur?"  
"Of course. What do you expect?"  
"Well, I assumed she called you Mulberry, like everyone else. You know Thicky's wife couldn't even remember his name. That's why he killed her. Or do you think the Mad Hatter had her killed in a jealous rage?" I was sick of his going on endlessly about our former neighbours.  
"Why don't you just go and live with them?" I asked irritably. "Besides, nobody killed Thicky's...I mean Dr. W's...wife. She just died. Now what about my wife? What does the letter say?"  
"All right, keep your shirt on. 'Dear Arthur. I have been kidnapped by the Mad Minge. Please come at once to effect a bold rescue with your old service revolver, and bring Mr. Domesday with you.' Mulberry, this is wonderful!" I was seized again with a paralysing emotion, this time one of fear and horror.  
"My wife!" I cried. "My poor, dear, sensitive Mary held in the clutches of London's most evil criminal mastermind!"  
"But don't you see?" Sebastian exclaimed gleefully. "This is our best lead yet. It'll take us right to the Minge. I'm damned, though, if I don't smell something fishy."  
"Sod your investigation, you callous bastard!" I wailed. "He could be abusing her. He may have done anything to her. We've got to save Mary!"  
"Who? Oh yes. Fair enough, we'll do it on the way." And with this statement I had to be content. To my frustration Sebastian did not seem to be in a great hurry to capture the Mad Minge and free poor Mary. He first set off hurriedly in a cab for Mancini's where we had a three course dinner and a bottle of Chablis. Then, he told me we were going to see his brother, who worked for the British government and spent most of his time in a gentleman's club where everybody spoke Welsh. We arrived late in the evening, but were ushered inside by an incomprehensible waiter who drenched us with spit, and directed by a series of curious signs which got us lost many times to the Visitor's Room, where people could speak English.  
"Thank God for that." I muttered, feeling my mouth would never be dry again. "Where's this brother of yours?" Hardly were the words out of my mouth when the door opened, and in came a great corpulent man, well over six feet tall, with astonishing watery grey eyes and a very piercing expression. He stared at us curiously, grunted, took a pinch of snuff and then promptly left again. In his wake tottered a weedy looking little chap, peering myopically through glasses on the end of his nose.  
"This is my brother, Postulent." Sebastian told me. I shook hands with Postulent Domesday.  
"Hello."  
"Hello." He quavered. Bewildered I drew Sebastian aside.  
"How can this man help us?" I demanded.  
"Because, my dear Mulberry, Postulent's powers of reasoning and deduction are superior to my own."  
"So? Your basset hound Moriarty had powers of reasoning and deduction superior to yours." Sebastian looked upset and began to whimper, and I remembered that Moriarty had been impounded by the government. I tried to change the subject. "What does your brother do in the British government anyway?"  
"He has forged for himself a position which makes him entirely indispensable."  
"Oh? What is it?"  
"He is the premier's personal janitor." Something told me that Sebastian had been rather optimistic in his belief that the weedy Postulent Domesday could help us in any way.  
"So?" I asked. Sebastian smiled.   
"Haven't you wondered, Mulberry, why my brother frequents this club, the strangest club in London? It is because he is, in fact, a Welsh interpreter."  
"Good Lord!"  
"I thought we could use him to get on the right side of Mr. Swthllwyn."  
"We've no time to think about that now! What about Mary?"  
"Do you imagine for a moment that I'd forgotten the case at hand?" Sebastian demanded. "You should know from experience, dear fellow, that it is when I am completely irrelevant that I am at my most relevant. Your old service revolver will come greatly in useful in this investigation. Unfortunately you left it in your bedside drawer in Baker Street. Before we even think about hunting down the Mad Minge, we shall need to obtain it."   
  
In a trice, which actually took about five hours and a lot of companionable head-locking going on between Mr. Swthllwyn and the surprisingly vigorous Postulent, we obtained my service revolver and set off immediately for the train station.   
"You know where the Minge is?" I demanded of Sebastian. My friend did a lot of enigmatic eyebrow-waggling and shook his head demurely.  
"You should know better, my dear Mulberry, than to ask about my conclusions at this stage of the investigation. I prefer to keep my own counsel until my theories have been confirmed, at which point I will reveal them in some dramatic and theatrical way."  
"You don't know where he is, do you?"  
"No." Sebastian admitted.   
"Where are we going then?"  
"I thought we might take a short holiday."  
"Sebastian! What about my wife?"  
"She won't mind."  
"For God's sake man!" A thought suddenly occurred to me, and I whipped out the crumpled note from Mary.  
"She's a clever woman." I began. Sebastian snorted disbelievingly.  
"A clever woman? Has such a thing been discovered?"  
"We don't have time for unexplained misogyny now, Sebastian." I snapped, though in his case the explanation was quite blatant. "It occurs to me that Mary might have left us some clue in the note as to where she is being held."  
"Such as what?"  
"Oh, I don't know, some code, some cipher, perhaps invisible ink, something obscure and unusual."  
"We're buggered then. I was never much good at ciphers."  
"We shall have to get some help in reading it." Sebastian's face filled with horror as he realised the scheme I was about to suggest.  
"No, Mulberry! Not the Mad Hatter! I won't do it! It's beneath my dignity." I rose to my full height - a difficult thing to do while sitting down.  
"If you refuse, Sebastian, then our friendship is over." His lip wobbled, but I ignored it ruthlessly, determined as I was to liberate Mary from the clutches of a Mad Minge.  
"All right." He muttered, eventually. "But I won't talk to him."  
"We shall send a telegram."  
  
Telegram, Arthur Mulberry to Mr. H:  
  
SIR NEED HELP URGENTLY STOP POSSIBLE CIPHER AND OBSCURE CLUES STOP IN POST STOP  
  
Telegram, Mr. H. TO Arthur Mulberry:  
  
SIR STOP NOTE RECEIVED STOP IT APPEARS TO BE A LETTER FROM YOUR WIFE STOP WRITTEN WITH A J PEN ON PAPER CREATED BY THE MIKASUKI INDIANS OF AMERICA STOP YOUR WIFE APPEARS TO HAVE SOME KIND OF VENEREAL DISEASE STOP RECOMMEND CONSULTATION WITH MY FRIEND DOCTOR W STOP PS PLEASE TELL YOUR FRIEND DOMESDAY THAT HE IS AN IDIOT STOP  
  
Telegram, Arthur Mulberry to Mr. H:  
  
SIR WE KNOW THAT STOP APART FROM THE BIT ABOUT THE INDIANS STOP AND THAT IS NOT RELEVANT STOP THE MAD MINGE IS A PERSON NOT A DISEASE STOP WE WISH YOU TO DEDUCE FROM THE LETTER THE LOCATION AT WHICH IT WAS WRITTEN STOP THANKS STOP SEBASTIAN WISHES ME TO POINT OUT THAT AT LEAST HE DOES NOT WEAR A SILLY HAT STOP  
  
Telegram, Mr. H. to Arthur Mulberry  
  
SIR HAVE SUCCESSFULLY COMPLETED THE TASK YOU SET STOP THANK YOU FOR GIVING ME SOMETHING TO DO AND HENCE PROVIDING AN ALTERNATIVE TO NARCOTICS STOP THE LETTER WAS WRITTEN AT THE FOLLOWING ADDRESS 1 MOUNTAIN PASS REICHENBACH SWITZERLAND STOP IT IS BY AN EXTRAORDINARY COINCIDENCE THE PLACE WHERE PROFESSOR MORIARTY MET HIS DEATH STOP MY HAT IS NOT THE LEAST BIT SILLY STOP W THINKS IT MAKES ME LOOK DISTINGUISHED STOP   
  
Telegram, Arthur Mulberry to Mr. H:  
  
SIR THANK YOU FOR YOUR HELP STOP WAS COMPLETELY ASTONISHED BY YOUR ABILITY TO GIVE US AN ADDRESS STOP MAY I ASK HOW YOU DEDUCED IT STOP  
  
Telegram, Mr. H. to Arthur Mulberry:  
  
SIR THANK YOU FOR YOUR GROUNDLESS BUT MUCH APPRECIATED ADMIRATION STOP THERE WERE SEVERAL CLUES WHICH LED ME TO A CONCLUSION INCLUDING THE FACT THAT I RECOGNISED THE STYLE OF PAPER HAVING BEEN IN THAT AREA SOME YEARS AGO STOP HOWEVER THE MOST VITAL CLUE WAS THE LETTERHEADED NOTEPAPER USED BY THE LADY STOP   
  
  
  
"See? I told you he was nothing special." Sebastian exclaimed, staring at the telegram.   
"Well, at least we know where Mary is."  
"Mmm." He agreed, but there seemed to be a certain lack of enthusiasm in the sound.   
"I suppose we'll be off to Reichenbach then."  
"It appears so."  
"How do we actually get there?"  
"That, I suppose, is the final problem."  
  
It was not that much of a problem, in fact - a train solved the conundrum and within a day we were standing above that tumultuous abyss known as the Reichenbach Fall. Well, I was standing above it and Sebastian, who has little head for heights, was being sick into it. As soon as he had recovered we began our search for Mary.  
"The Mad Hatter said 1, Mountain Pass." Sebastian remarked as we headed down the trail. "So we're looking for the first house along."  
"Do you think they are arranged with odd on one side and even on the other, or in a continuous line?"  
"That's what we need to find out." In the end, however, prolonged searching was made unnecessary by the fact that there was, in fact, only one house along the wild and windy pass, a big rambling gothic affair with towers, turrets, and gargoyles in the shape of malicious looking squirrels. Sebastian shuddered as he gazed upon them.  
"There it is, Mulberry." He hissed. "The lair of Major Meretricious Mingeford, the most evil and brilliant criminal in the world."  
"And he has my Mary!" I groaned. Sebastian glared at me.   
"Can't you think about anything else?" I shook my head, and we proceeded to make our way stealthily into the house. We donned black masks, scrambled over the high outer wall (making sure that our progress was concealed behind some conifers), slipped under cover of darkness through the garden, shot the guard-dog very quietly, paused for a moment while Sebastian appreciated the loveliness of a late-blooming rose (unfortunately while he was doing so a bee escaped and stung him on the nose, at which he whimpered, very quietly), dug a small tunnel from the middle of the garden to the porch, crept silently up the steps, and rang the doorbell.  
"That was very stealthy." I congratulated Sebastian, "with the possible exception of the final step."  
"Yes, I was thinking that myself." He replied, but it was too late to do anything about it because the door abruptly creaked open. There was no one inside; no indication of life. Removing our masks, we slipped in, hearing the door slam behind us, and made our way through a dark passage. A speckled band hissed at us from a bell pull, but Sebastian hit it with a stick and it immediately crept away.   
"Look!" My friend exclaimed suddenly. We had come to a door. Slowly, Sebastian pushed it open, and it swung inward, creaking.   
Beyond the door, it seemed, was a room, not an unusual thing in and of itself. It was decorated in a classical, gilted style, and clearly belonged to someone of great wealth. A large painting of a woman keeking at you sideways while sitting on a lamb stood at the back, adorning an oak panelled wall. There was an enormous leather topped desk, and behind it a great black thronelike chair, turned away from us. Sebastian reached out and grabbed my hand.  
"That's enough of that." I said, extracting it firmly. Domesday shrugged, and raising his voice to its most strident, addressed the back of the chair.  
"Major Meretricious Mingeford, I assume?" Slowly, the chair turned around, and seated it was indeed the most evil criminal mastermind of the century. He was disappointingly ordinary looking, a weedy little sod with grey hair and a curly moustache and an interesting scar on his face. In his arms he held a small red squirrel, which he stroked rhythmically. I gasped; Sebastian had been right!   
Upon seeing us, however, the Mad Minge abruptly lost his scary evil demeanour; he dropped the squirrel, slumped down in his chair and said roughly,  
"Look, whatever you are selling, I don't want any, all right? Now I'm expecting a very important visitor so please..."  
"Hang on a minute! I am that important visitor. I am a great detective set upon your nefarious trail." The Minge instantly recovered his evilness, and his squirrel.  
"Then prepare to meet your doom! But first, meet my daughter, Mary." And out od a secret panel in the bookcase behind him stepped none other than my beautiful lost wife Mary! I recoiled I horror; Sebastian simply recoiled.  
"You kidnapped your own daughter?" He queried, confused.  
"I'm afraid not." Mary replied, stepping forward to pat her father's squirrel. "You see, Arthur, our courtship and marriage was simply a ruse in order to lure you to this lair, so that my father could horribly kill you." I was devastated! To think that my wonderful wife was a nefarious traitor!  
"Quite." Said the Minge with a nasty smile. "And now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, prepare to meet your doom." There was an awkward pause. Then Sebastian said,  
"I'm sorry, were you talking to me?"  
"Yes. You are Holmes?"  
"Ah...no. I'm Sebastian Domesday. This is my friend Mulberry." The Mad Minge was perturbed.  
"Oh." He said after an embarrassed pause. "Er...you see I was expecting Mr. Holmes. I think there's been a mistake."  
"It would appear so."   
"But you see I sent my daughter out to engage the affections of Dr. Watson, knowing that Holmes himself is far too austere and misogynistic ever to fall pray to the charms of a young woman, even if they are extraordinary large and buxom ones."  
"Well quite." As one, we all turned to look at Mary. She stared back defiantly.  
"Mary." Said the Major. "I told you to seek out the great detective."  
"Well he is...a detective."  
"Who lives in Baker Street."  
"I do." Said Sebastian.  
"And woo his partner, an ex-army chap who writes books."  
"I am, and do." Said I. At this point we all realised where the confusion had set in.   
"Mary." Said the Minge dangerously.  
"Yes father."  
"You have been inaccurate in your wooing."  
"Yes father."  
"You have engaged the affections of precisely the wrong individual."  
"I'm sorry father." The Minge gave a great sigh.   
"Well, I suppose you'll have to do, whoever you are. And now, Mr...sorry, what was your name?"  
"Domesday, Sebastian Domesday."  
"And now, Mr. Sebastian Domesday, prepare to meet your doom!"  
  
Doom, apparently, was not quite ready yet, and we were dispatched to a very smelly and foetid cell, where would spend our last night on earth.  
"This has all gone a big wrong really, hasn't it?" Sebastian remarked, after a while.  
"Yes, I suppose it has."  
"It should be the Mad Hatter in here, you know."  
"If he were here," I replied sharply, "I very much doubt that he would have allowed himself to get into this mess!" There was a hurt pause.  
"That is unworthy of you, Mulberry." He murmured. And suddenly I snapped.  
"For God's sake, Sebastian! I have lost my wife today! And I'm stuck in a stinking cell with a useless detective, preparing to meet my doom. And it's all your fault!" I heard a choked sob in the darkness.  
"Oh for heaven's sake." I muttered, relenting. "Don't cry."  
"I'm sorry, it's just...well I've waited all my life for such an opportunity and now it's all gone wrong. I can't help being useless. All I ever wanted was lots of money, a nice little cottage with open spaces near the ocean, and small mammalia to kill. This is hardly the ideal situation for me either, you know." With a deep sigh, I patted his shoulder, or rather a bit of him that I assumed to be his shoulder - it was rather hard to tell in the blackness.  
"Don't worry, old chap. We'll get out of it somehow." And for once in his life, Sebastian was right. Help came from a most unexpected quarter - my estranged wife. She came slinking up to our cell door.  
"Arthur? Arthur!"  
"Mary?"  
"Arthur!"  
"Mary!"  
"I've come to help you." She whispered. "Don't tell my father."  
"Oh, Mary!"  
"Oh, Arthur!"  
"Oh, for Christ's sake." Sebastian muttered, as I kissed my wife. She proceeded to invite me to remove a key from her bosom, with which I opened the cell door.  
"Now run away quickly!" She cried.  
"We've got to kill the Minge first." I pointed out. Mary hesitated.  
"Oh. You see, I'd rather you didn't. He is my father, you know. He may come across as an evil criminal mastermind, but that's just his way. He's really kind and gentle and loving. I'm afraid if you plan to murder him I'll have to lock you back up again."  
"I don't think so." Domesday replied. He whipped out my service revolver and held it to her head. "You see, Mulberry? She is a treacherous bint after all."  
"Fair enough." I agreed, and we shoved Mary back into the cell and locked her up.  
"Sebastian?" I asked, as we made our way to the Minge's grand chamber, "if you had the revolver all along, why didn't you escape earlier?"  
"I forgot I had it until Mary showed up."  
"So in the absence of a reminder, you would have simply allowed us to be horribly killed?"  
"Brain like a sieve." He shrugged. By this time we had thrown open the door leading to Major Mingeford's lair. Unfortunately, he wasn't in it.  
"Perhaps he's in bed." I suggested. We checked, then searched the whole house. He was nowhere to be found. Eventually, we were forced to admit defeat and I pulled out my telegraph form.  
  
Telegram, Arthur Mulberry to Mr. H.  
  
SIR AM AT REICHENBACH STOP HAVE LOCATED HOUSE OF MINGEFORD STOP BUT HAS GONE MISSING STOP ANY IDEAS STOP  
  
Telegram, Mr. H. to Arthur Mulberry:  
  
SIR MAYBE HE IS IN BED STOP TRY THAT STOP IF NOT CONSIDER THE FACT THAT MARYS COMING TO FREE YOU MAY HAVE BEEN ANOTHER RUSE STOP PERHAPS HE WISHES TO SET UP A GRAND ENCOUNTER BETWEEM HIMSELF AND MR DOMESDAY WHICH WILL RESULT IN BOTH YOUR DEATHS STOP I HAVE PERSONAL EXPERIENCE IN THIS MATTER STOP IF THIS IS TRUE THEN I WOULD STRONGLY SUGGEST GOING TO THE TOP OF THE REICHENBACH FALL STOP SAY HELLO TO MR STEILER FOR ME STOP  
  
  
  
We headed in a rush along the trail and to the very head of the Fall. Below us, the great swirling water swirled wetly, and Sebastian has to pause to vomit a second time. Standing at the head of the great drop, silhouetted against the coming dawn, was the somewhat less than imposing figure of Major Meretricious Mingeford. At that moment, a Swiss lad ran up to us with a note for me.  
  
Dear Sir, [it ran] there is an Englishwoman at the hotel who is in need of some attention. Please come and see her at once, thus leaving your friend to his imevitable fate. PS I apologise for this rather obvious ruse, I have been feeling a little under the weather.   
Sincerely,  
Mr. Steiler, a Swiss hotelier you have never met.  
  
"Good heavens!" I cried. "A ruse!"   
"You had better do as the note says, Mulberry." Sebastian told me gravely. "Please give my regards to Mr. Steiler, and believe me to be, my dear fellow, very sincerely yours, Sebastian Domesday."  
"All right." I said. "But I don't like it. You might get killed." Sebastian shrugged, then rose to his full height, and strode purposefully up to the top of the Fall. As I was walking down the trail a sense of foreboding came over me, and I stopped, and turned to see Sebastian and Mingeford locked in deadly combat. As I turned away there was a shriek, the sound of someone falling a very long way, and a great splash. I was convinced that the battle had ended with the two enemies reeling over the edge of the Fall in each other's arms, and plunging to their deaths. Still, there was nothing I could do about it, so I made my way to the hotel, was informed that a ruse had taken place, and settled down to eat tea and crumpets and toast to the tragic death of my dear old friend. I was just about to do so when the man himself walked in, looking very cheerful and pleased with himself.  
"Sebastian!" I cried. "Don't tell me you survived deadly combat with England's most evil criminal?"  
"I did indeed." Said he, sitting down. "Are those crumpets?"  
"Help yourself, and tell me how you succeeded in climbing out of that terrible abyss."  
"Ah, the terrible abyss."  
"Yes, the terrible abyss."  
"Well, about the terrible abyss, you see I never was in it."  
"You never were in it?"  
"No, I never was in it."  
"Weren't you?"  
"No."  
"Really? Not in the terrible abyss?"  
"No, I was never in it."  
"Surely," I cried, "surely then when the Mad Minge lunged at you, you eluded him with your surprising and previously unmentioned knowledge of Baritsu, and watched him plunge to his doom at the bottom of the Fall, having thrown him over." Sebastian shook his head, his mouth full of crumpet.  
"No, I shot the bugger." He mumbled. "What's Baritsu?"   
  
And that, dear reader, is a true and factual account of how Mr. Sebastian Domesday, late of Baker Street, London, dispatched the most - or second most, or possibly third - evil and cunning criminal mastermind the world has ever known. Friends of Mr. Domesday - or rather, acquaintances, for I have mentioned elsewhere in this reminisces that he had no friends - may be pleased to know that he is still alive and well, and living on the Sussex Downs, where he divides his time between philosophy and shooting squirrels with a twelvebore. I hear that he gets on very well with his near neighbour, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.  
As for me...well, I stayed in London, and make my living through gambling and writing mystery stories. I have recently remarried, but for political reasons the identity of my wife, and the reasons why she calls me 'James', cannot be divulged. I dedicate this work to Mr. Sebastian Domesday, who is not the best and wisest man whom I have ever known, but is still my greatest and most beloved friend. 


End file.
